


Red Velvet Cake at the End of the World

by tambrathegreat



Series: Michonne and Daryl Stories [2]
Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 08:56:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tambrathegreat/pseuds/tambrathegreat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michonne begins to see Daryl in a new light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Velvet Cake at the End of the World

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own The Walking Dead or any of its characters. I make no money from this endeavor.
> 
> This story was undertaken for a challenge on The Maple Bookshelf. The prompt was Red. Bonus points were given if someone eats cake.

Michonne and Daryl had taken refuge in the tiny post office where a herd of walkers had driven them into the only building they could find that could still be locked from the inside. It was one of the old style federal buildings constructed of cement blocks with sturdy metal doors at each of the entrances and high barred windows that allowed light in, but nothing else. Michonne shifted her shoulders in an attempt to release the tension that had gathered there over the course of the four hours they had been holed up. She had been skeptical of the redneck’s willingness to see past the color of her skin (or her gender), when they went out on this little mission to get more baby supplies; but she couldn’t have been more wrong about him.

It wasn’t that he had saved her ass when they had got cut off from the hog they had rode into town on. It wasn’t that he had been, well, less him since she had given him his brother’s last message. It was just that he had a way of looking at her when he didn’t think she noticed. It wasn’t a heated look, or overtly sexual; he looked at her in a squint-eyed measuring way, like he couldn’t quite believe whatever it was he was seeing.

Michonne had been the recipient of that look before many times. Hell, she was an educated black woman who lived in the Old South. Most of the good ol’ boys she had passed in the streets of Atlanta had looked at her like that, but Dixon’s gaze took in more than what he could see. He seemed to be seeing her, Michonne, not his idea of a proud black woman.

She stole a glance at him from behind her dreads. He smirked, “What?”

“Why you keep looking at me?”

He blew out a huff of pent up breath, causing the greasy fringe of his hair to sway. He was sitting, splayed legged, with his crossbow between his knees, the arrows still slung across his shoulder. It couldn’t be comfortable. “I was thinkin’ how scrawny you was. If we have to stay here for more than a couple a days and I have to eat you, but you’ll prob’ly be tough.”

Michonne gave an involuntary snort of amusement, “Who says it’s me that will be eaten?”

Dixon’s eyes widened, and for a moment a thread of awareness curled between them, and then he shook his head and scoffed, the noise hissing in the air above the moaning, shuffling sounds of the walkers outside. He turned his attention to the crossbow between his legs; pulling the string taut then letting it go. It was a new one and one of the reasons he had chosen to come on this jaunt. Michonne knew he’d broken the old one during that last dust-up with the Governor’s bunch. He rose in a swift, graceful movement. Michonne pulled her legs up, in preparation to stand. He said, “Hold on there, I gotta go drain the lizard. I don’t need your help for that, Sunshine.”

Michonne’s stomach growled as he clunked through the room in his scuffed Dingo boots. She leaned her head against the cool cement of the wall and closed her eyes, willing herself to forget about the hunger that roiled through her gut. It was just another sensation she would try to overcome.

From the other room, she heard the sound of metal clicking, a zipping noise, and then the pinging of water hitting metal. To distract herself from the noise she tried to think about what life had been before the end of the world: Latte in the morning, followed by rush-hour traffic, an interesting job as a Legal Aid lawyer, dinner with her boyfriend (who she’d dated since college,) late nights spent writing poetry that rarely made a difference other than to her, and those she would read it to…

It was all such bullshit.

The only useful skill set she had from before was the belt in Kendo she had gotten after she was mugged. Michonne hated to be a victim. She had hated it since she first discovered the white world was set against her and her kind.

The redneck was taking too long. He should have been back by now, especially since he didn’t seem to be the type to dwell on the now mundane horror that was in the back office.

The lurid scene had presented itself to them as they hurriedly entered the back of the building. There had been a lone, long-dead figure slumped over a desk; its white shirt gleaming in the near gloom of the office. Flies droned over dark material that was sprayed across the surface of the desk, along the floor, on the ceiling, and the handgun that lay in the figure’s mummified hand. Dixon had closed the door to the room with a barely perceptible tightening of his lips.

They’d settled in the front room behind the main counter. It was a better place to hear the herd, with the added benefit that it stank less of pointless death.

Michonne shook her head, trying to clear the images; it didn’t do to dwell on the bad, especially as broken as she was.

A soft rustling from the doorway caused her to jerk forward. Dixon entered the room, a box of Ho-Ho’s under his arm and two bottles of water in his hand. “I found these in the break room.”

He held out the water and dropped down on his haunches next to her. Tearing into the box, he gave a rare, open smile that exposed white teeth against dusky tanned skin and said, “I’ve missed cake.”

Michonne picked up one of the cellophane packets, popping it open with her teeth. Dixon had already taken a bite; the stale, waxy icing crumbling onto his chest. He looked down at the confection with look of disgust on his face as he proclaimed, “It’s red.”

After a quick glance at the box, Michonne said, “That’s because it’s red velvet cake. I didn’t even know they made that kind.”

At Dixon’s look of incomprehension, she added, “Don’t tell me you never had some nice old church lady make red velvet cake for a social. I know white people made that kind of cake too.”  
“Didn’t have no use for church.” Dixon stuffed the rest of the cake into his mouth and reached for another. Around the dry mass of stale cake he added, “And little old church ladies never had no use for me or mine.”

Michonne thought she might understand. Poor white trash like him wasn’t the type who went to church or ate at socials. She bit into her own cake, relishing the sweet, waxy, chemical taste of it, even if it was stale. A few crumbs spilled onto her chin and her sweat-stained shirt. Michonne couldn’t suppress the moan at the taste of something she hadn’t even known she missed. She had never had much of a sweet tooth.

  
Dixon stared at her with that measuring look of his before he reached over and smoothed a thumb over her chin. His gaze held hers as he brought the crumb he had wiped off of her to his own lips, his pink tongue flicking it into his mouth. Michonne felt that same thread of awareness between them that she had before as he said, “Sweet.”

**Author's Note:**

> This story was alpha-read by Lady Zombie. 
> 
> Thanks for reading. Please take the time to let me know what you think.


End file.
